by Pat Henshaw
So instead of going to the saloon alone all the time, I’d put in overtime at the nursery making wreaths and pine swags, both of which were impossible to keep in stock. Beth was thrilled and called me a “real asset” to the store. I was fast and uncomplaining, and always upbeat. Mostly I let my mind drift while I did mundane tasks that tired me out enough that I slept soundly at night.
I also got my library card from the postage-stamp library located behind Blue Cottage, off the city park. A stroll through the aisles of the library told me I’d better ask my mom to send some of our old books so I could donate them.
I visited the farm and ranch supply store, the firehouse, and the Western wear shop. I saw a couple of movies. I lived it up, alone.
I was bored out of my skull as far as companionship went. Everyone was really nice, friendly, and weird. It was like I was some exotic specimen plucked from the rain forest and replanted in the drought-plagued foothills. Nobody seemed to know what to do with me. I couldn’t figure out how to break out of the hothouse they put me in and establish the tiniest foothold on their soil.
Still, I worked, interacted with customers, corralled the young kids who ran up and down the aisles, and was happy I could piss in my own home without getting smacked in the face by a wet bra.
Then one Sunday evening as I took out my trash, John asked me if I wanted to have that beer. Of course, I agreed.
We met at Stonewall on a Monday night.
The place was more or less empty—a couple of guys I didn’t recognize playing a card game in the corner, Stone behind the bar talking to his fiancé Jimmy, who sat on a barstool front and center. Jimmy’s hands were moving wildly, and I could hear his voice though it was too low-pitched to understand what he was saying. Whatever it was engaged Stone enough that he didn’t look away from Jimmy’s face when we stood next to the bar a few feet away.
I unzipped my ski jacket and unwound the hand-knit scarf from around my neck and face. The bitter cold from outside clung to me like a fungus, but the room’s heat was beating it back.
John, whose internal temperature seemed to run at tropical heat, unbuttoned his jean jacket and wiped the sweat off his forehead.
“Damn, it’s hot in here.” He rubbed the moisture from his face onto his sleeve. “I’m going to die any minute.”
“Why don’t you go get us a table, and I’ll get the drinks?” Before he could protest, I added, “You get the next round.”
“Total Eclipse Ale for me, then.” John turned and, taking off his jacket, walked away from the bar.
It took long enough to get Stone’s attention that I had a chance to look over the display bottles lining the shelf above the bar’s mirrored back. I’d been meaning to try one of the Hoppy beers, but opted for a Sudwerk lager because I missed going to the brewery in Davis and drinking there with my grad school friends.
I started to pay, but Stone cut me off.
“You guys thinking about more than one?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Okay, then, I’ll run a tab and keep a watch on your glasses. You can change the music at the box over there if you don’t like it. You don’t need change. I’ve got it on code tonight.” While he was talking, he’d opened the bottles and slung glasses over the long necks. “You need help with any of this?” He slid the two bottles toward me.
I picked up the drinks and turned, my eyes getting used to the bar darkness as I searched for John. He’d found us a two-person table in a back corner. After I plopped the beers on the table, I sat across from him.
“So how’s your week been?” I took a sip and figured he’d probably ignore the question, but I wasn’t going to let him. “Looks like you’ve been as busy as we have. You having a sale or something at the diner?”
His head shot up, and he glared at me.
“It’s not a diner.”
“That so?” Ha. I knew I could get a rise out of him.
Then he was off explaining how the Silver Star was a gourmet restaurant and how they were sure to get a great Michelin rating. That kicked into superchef Adam’s cooking credentials and how his cooking had been received throughout his career. He talked more about the place and his boss than he did about himself.
Still, it was nice to hear him talking about something he loved and to watch his face open like a crocus after a long winter. And, yes, I knew that everyone else would make fun of me describing him as a spring blossom since he had a five o’clock shadow and was roughly built, his face probably a little unremarkable to most people. But I see people in terms of plants and flowers sometimes, and he was blooming. He glowed as he jabbered.
His naturally ruddy complexion pinked a little more, the color smoothing out, not merely sticking to his cheeks. His brown eyes sparkled, twinkling at times as he told me something funny. He was irresistible, and I hoped he was finding my rapt attention as becoming as I was finding his passion.
As he began to wind down, he was staring at me like I was a puzzle he had to solve.
“Mind if I ask you a couple of personal questions?” He’d stopped staring and was busy examining the table top.
“No. What do you want to know?” I thought I was pretty much an open book, so I couldn’t imagine what he was wondering about.
“Why green?”
“What? Excuse me?” What was green? Were we talking in code now?
He leaned toward me, lifted his hand, and gently gestured across the top of my stand-up haircut to the green tips.
“Oh, that.”
His hand jumped back to his nearly empty glass, and he retreated into his chair.
“Uh, I did it when I was a freshman, my first year of college. I didn’t want to be known as the ‘short guy’ like I had been during high school. I got the tattoo first and thought maybe people would pick up on it. But it was too subtle, I think. I could feel people starting to talk about me as the short guy and had to do something else.” I took a sip of beer and looked at him. “You get it, right?”
He nodded.
“My mom suggested a new hairstyle when I told her.” I ran my hand through my hair. “I have this girlfriend—you know, friend who is a girl—whose hair had gone from deep brick-red through royal purple, bouncing on each wedge of the color circle during our senior year in high school. When I told her what I was thinking, she pounced. She said green was the calming and relaxing color, the color that told strangers I was a friend and never a foe. She said green would keep me safe. She also knew I was a plant nerd and was studying botany.”
John was grinning at me by the time I finished my explanation.
“So you’re a—”
“If you say leprechaun, I’ll slug you.”
He sat back in his chair like I had hit him, a look of horror on his face. Yeah, I got it. As a short guy like me, he’d obviously heard one too many leprechaun jokes in his life.
“No. I’d never call you that.” His usually soothing baritone sounded strained, like he was recovering from a fist to the chest.
“It’s okay. I’ve been called worse,” I assured him.
We sat for a few minutes finishing up our beers. So much for our first date. The short-guy name-calling had obviously upset him a lot more when he was growing up than it had me. And it had pissed me off no end. The green hadn’t done its job this time. I’d just managed to remind him of something painful instead of being a relaxing and calming drinking companion. Damn.
I put on my coat and watched as John walked to the bar and settled up with Stone. He seemed calmer now, like he’d decided to ignore whatever had been bothering him.
Before we got to the outside door, he stopped and looked over at me. He squinted and shook his head.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, looking me in the eye. “I don’t know why I….”
Yeah, well, I didn’t know why he did either. But I nodded. “No problem.”
He kinda grinned, more a grimace, but I got the idea and accepted his apology.
I was so exhausted when we got back
to Blue Cottage, I could barely drag up a smile when John stopped me before I went in.
“I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I had fun. We should do it again.”
He might even have been serious. Who knows?
A COUPLE of days later as I left to go to work, a portly, older guy was knocking at John’s door. The guy turned as I rounded the corner of the porch on my way to my truck.
“Hey! You know if a guy named John Barton lives here?” His voice reeked of too much booze and smoker’s throat. He wore a rumpled but tailored wool suit like only those born with money can. I’d seen enough of them in grad school, being dragged to the labs and greenhouses as the deans pitched for research money. Immediately I disliked his attitude and his leering, predatory gaze.
I ignored him and kept heading toward the front walk to get to my truck. Snow or no snow, I should have jumped over the porch railing to avoid him.
“Hey, you there!” The guy moved into my path. “I’m Leonard Waterson.” He stopped and waited like I should know his name. I didn’t. “Call me Leo. Who’re you?”
He looked down at me with lurid interest. As if I wanted to know someone at least twenty years older than I was, if not more, and who looked like a wealthy sleaze. His gaze swept me, and he licked his lips. His erection ruined the cut of his tailored pants. Yeah, no thanks. What I wanted to do was cover myself and run for the hills.
“I gotta get to work.” I started to walk around him.
Behind us the front door opened, and John stepped out.
“Leo, let him go. I’m here.” Instead of his butterscotch and honey voice, he sounded resigned and cold.
The man turned. “Babe, I been looking all over for you. Why’d you leave town? We coulda worked something out. You didn’t need to abandon me.” Unlike John’s, Leo’s voice grated like fingernails on a chalkboard.
I looked at John, whose sad, angry glance shouted for me to leave. With a shake of my head, I did.
I puzzled about John and Leo while I was working, and I worried that I might lose the great rental, the perfect place, and my handsome landlord if he hooked up with Leo and returned to wherever they’d been together.
In the middle of the night, their voices reverberated off my walls.
“Why’d you leave me, babe? We coulda just negotiated. I know I lowballed you, but all you had to do was talk to me. I’ve been broken without you. I even hired a private dick to find you.”
Whatever John answered was so quiet I couldn’t hear it.
“Whaddya mean you’re not coming back with me?” Then there was a loud thud. I wasn’t sure what I should do, if anything. Did John need help? I guess I could call 9-1-1 if things escalated.
As the noise continued, loud and louder on Leo’s part and too soft to understand on John’s, I grabbed my phone. I hated to get into John’s private business, but dammit, I didn’t like this Leo character at all.
Before I could dial, I heard John’s front door slam.
“You ungrateful little prick.” Leo was yelling loud enough that if John had neighbors, instead of a small city park next door, they’d be up and calling the cops, complaining about the noise.
Silence folded over the house once he left. What should I do? I put my phone down. I heard John moving around, so he was probably okay. No reason to go downstairs and check on him. I didn’t want him to think I was butting into his business.
Now I was wide awake, and hungry. Looking through my kitchen cabinets, all the snack food I could find was a bag of raw popcorn. I popped some of it in a saucepan on the old-fashioned gas stove and was sitting down to eat it and drink a beer when I heard a knock on my door. Afraid it might be the brute returning to recruit me to help him, I peeked through the security hole.
Standing outside, with snow falling around him, was John.
“Hey.” I might be awake, but I wasn’t eloquent at this time of night. The smell of popcorn billowed around me. “C’mon in.”
“Sorry if we woke you.” John didn’t move.
I waved a hand to dismiss his apology. “It’s cold out there. C’mon in and join me for some popcorn and beer.”
He stared at me a moment, then gave me a tiny smile. The smile was a green light to my dick. I had to remind myself that while John had been perfectly nice to me, he hadn’t given me any signs he was interested in anything but friendship. My self-lecture brought me back to earth, and I led him over to the kitchen table.
We sat across from each other, beers in front of us and the bowl of popcorn between. At first John seemed nervous and shy, almost like he was embarrassed.
“Sorry about the noise.” We’d been munching away in silence for a few minutes when he spoke up. He smelled like raw onions and some kind of grilled meat, and he looked exhausted.
“Hey, no problem.”
I took a handful of popcorn, chewed it, swallowed, and took a slug of beer. “You wanna talk about what just happened?” I was idly asking, not looking at him, so there was no pressure.
As I glanced up, he shrugged. “Not really.”
He hadn’t said no, so I asked, “Old boyfriend, huh?”
His grin faded to a grimace. “More like a bad mistake.”
I sighed and nodded. “Is there any other kind? Been there. Done that. No souvenirs.”
“Not as bad as this one.” He sounded fierce and tough, like we were talking about an old gang experience or something else I knew absolutely nothing about.
What could I say? No answer came to mind, so I drank my beer and ate popcorn.
“Somebody once told me,” he murmured in a sleepy-sounding voice, “that the secretary of agriculture said beer and popcorn were a complete nutritional diet.” His sleepy voice told me whatever had happened between him and Leo was starting to dissipate.
“Yeah?”
He grinned a sloppy, one-drink, cheap-date smile. “Yeah. I always thought it was funny.” He glanced over at me, suddenly looking my age and very vulnerable and totally fuckable. “So why am I chopping all those vegetables and creating all those sauces if I only need to pop some corn and pull some tabs for the Star customers?”
I still didn’t know what his position was at the restaurant. He wasn’t the celebrity chef. I’d seen photos of that guy. His smug, self-satisfied grin always rubbed me the wrong way. Beth said he’d swaggered into town and immediately divided it into the glamorous haves and the local peons.
“So you cook?” I asked it tentatively since he could be famous. I didn’t want to insult him.
“Yeah. I cook. I cook good.” He giggled, looking even younger now. “I’m the sous-chef. Soon to be a full-on chef. Try saying that fast three times.”
He giggled again and sounded happy, or at least happier than I’d heard him earlier.
He stood and wobbled, putting a scarred hand flat on the table to balance himself. One beer and the loss of an adrenaline high will do that to a guy. He blinked as if trying to wake up fully.
“This has been fun.” Wonder filled his voice, as if he was surprised the big guy hadn’t ruined his evening. “Thanks for the beer and popcorn. Till next time.”
He got across the room okay, so I didn’t offer to help him downstairs. When he opened the door, the porch already had about a half inch of snow on it.
“Be careful.” I tried not to sound like my mother as I watched him slowly navigate his way down the steps.
Next time? I hadn’t thought he wanted to see me. Now we had, and he was talking about next time. I shook my head after we waved to each other, and I closed the door. Next time? Thank God. Couldn’t wait.
4
NEXT TIME turned out to be a couple of days later after I got back from work. I felt like a tractor had run over me, and I smelled like fir-tree resin. My apartment, on the other hand, smelled like I could eat it. Any doubts I had about John’s cooking ability dried up as I walked into my kitchen to survey my frozen dinner choices. Talk about haves and have-nots. Whatever he was making downstairs smelled delicious.
I was just settling on a Hungry-Man spicy fried chicken and mashed potatoes dinner, a gourmet delight ready to go in six-to-eight minutes, when he knocked on my door. I was so tired I carried my rock-solid dinner with me.
“What the hell is that?” John recoiled, taking a step back and staring at Mr. Hungry-Man.
It wasn’t hello or how are you, so I stood still to get my bearings. I held up the box and peered at it.
“Dinner. Why?” Nothing seemed to be falling out of the box. Why was he getting so upset?
He laughed a few rusty barks, which quickly turned into guffaws. Tears streamed down his face.
“Hey, not all of us are cooks.” I lowered the box. “You need something? Cup of sugar, maybe?”
His laughter tapered off and died. He wiped his cheeks with his fingers, then stared at the tears a minute, surprise shining from his eyes. Finally, he looked at me, his eyelashes stuck together in a few places. “Yeah. I need you.” His voice slid over me like smoky molasses. It slowly dripped into my imagination.
If I’d been less tired, I would have jumped him right there. But while the spirit was willing, the body was wilted lettuce. He’d asked for help. I could give him help. Just barely.
“Sure. Let me take a shower and eat, then I’ll be right down.” I started to close the door, but he grabbed my Hungry-Man and walked it back to the freezer. He shoved it in with the others. His face scrunched in a grimace.
“Just put on some shoes and a coat. You’re eating downstairs.”
My tired brain recorded one more whiff of the aroma coming up from his kitchen, and I did as he commanded. It was next time, and I was sorta ready.
His place, like mine, was furnished in jewels from the past. As I expected, our floor plans were almost identical except he had a front and back door. His fireplace was alight with a warm, cheery fire. His rooms ranged from stately and formal to cozy and intimate. But none reflected the holiday season: no tree, no garland, nothing.
“You should come down to the nursery.” With a groan, I sank into the dining chair he’d indicated. “We can fix you up with a tree and evergreen swags.”